I'd be lost without my blogger
by TheGameIsOn-Geronimo
Summary: A Collection of one-shots/ drabbles that come from random ideas in my head or prompts from other people. The chapters probably won't relate to each other in any way, so don't get confused! Hopefully, most of them will be extremely fluffy.
1. Chapter 1

**This story is basically going to be a collection of random one-shots, that I will post when I write them, and I doubt they'll be related in any way, so don't get confused :) Feel free to give me any prompts :)**

**This specific one is Parent!lock, so if you don't like that, don't read it! :D**

**A Trip to The Circus**

Hamish held his breath as the tightrope walker balanced on the cable. The acrobat was only almost half way across and already he was preparing to jump up and down in applause when he completed his act. His mouth dropped open as the acrobat jumped on the tightrope, somehow managing to keep his balance. Beside him, John let out a murmured "Wow."

On his other side, Sherlock was muttering and cursing under his breath about the obviousness of the tricks, the way they looked impressive, but were actually simple, and spilling out all of the acrobats innermost secrets. Hamish sighed, easily blocking him out, it was annoying how he would always ruin fun days out.

Once the acrobat had got to the ground in the circus tent, the audience started applauding and then fell silent for the interval. John turned to look at him, "Are you enjoying it?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

"Yeah, it's really amazing. Although Sherlock was talking through most of it."

"God, I keep telling him not to do that. It ruins the day for everyone when he gets annoyed. Speak of the devil, where is he anyway?"

Hamish looked around, confused. He was sure that Sherlock had been there only a few minutes before, "I don't know. He said he was going to do something. Give us a show, or something."

"Oh God," John cried. "I don't even want to know what that means." He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

A few minutes later, the next act started. It started with a clown on a unicycle, who started to juggle, and yet there was still no sign of Sherlock.

A man emerged from back stage, the introducer of the next act. The hoop next to him was set on fire. Bring on the man who was going to jump through it!

"Hello, everyone! Welcome to the final act of the day! The hoop of fire!" The announcer shouted. A cheer erupted from the audience.

"Can you all put your hands together for the one, the only…" He never finished his sentence, for at that moment, a tall, thin man with curly black hair and a long coat billowing behind him jumped through the hoop, he even did a roll in mid-air.

The audience cheered loudly, whereas Hamish jumped to his feet, shouting "Sherlock!" and John covered his face with his hands.

On the stage the announcer had managed to get his voice back, interrupting Sherlock, who was bowing and waving to the crowd.

"You're not the performer!" he cried.

The audience fell deathly silent.

"Obviously not," Sherlock drawled, lazily. "He had an affair to deal with; honestly the marks on his cuffs were far too obvious." He shook his head, exasperated, "I may have let all the details slip back stage-to his wife. John," he called the room at large. "Sorry! I think that was a bit not good!"

Beside Hamish, John sank down into his chair and looked like he wanted to be swallowed up by the earth.

He looked at Sherlock, who had now turned to face the entrance to the tent, just as two burly security guards burst in.

"Ahh," he muttered. "Right."

Sherlock instantly broke out into a run, heading towards the tightrope. He scaled the ladder in next to no time and then put one foot on the rope. He wobbled for a fraction of a second, just getting his balance, before he stood still, arms outstretched. Slowly, he began to walk forwards, as the two men clambered onto the platform.

"Security! Stop right there!"

But, Sherlock never had listened to orders, and finding his confidence on the rope encouraged him to increase his pace.

John and Hamish, fearing for Sherlock's life, had pushed their way through the crowd and now stood in the performance area, mouths agape, as they watched Sherlock virtually hop along the tightrope.

Hamish heard John mumble, "Bloody git. He's even good at acrobatics."

Soon, Sherlock had completed the tightrope, leaving the guards far behind, where they had fallen to the floor. He nimbly climbed down from the platform and jogged over to them.

"Ah, John, Hamish, how did you enjoy the finale?"

"Sherlock bloody Holmes," John muttered, darkly. "You are in so much trouble!"

"Brilliant!" Sherlock replied, cheerfully, "I'm looking forward to it already. But, I have to say, it may have to wait."

They turned to see the guards running towards them, having picked themselves up from the ground. "Run!" Sherlock commanded, and together, the Watson-Holmeses ran out into the busy carnival.

**AN: Hope you liked this one :) If you want any prompts written, just tell me. I'll write anything (except slash, Sorry!). Prompts will help me out a lot if you have any, because I struggle to think of ideas :p**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Enjoy :) (Not Parent!lock this one)**

**The Broken Window**

Smash!  
"Well, that went well."  
Sherlock jumped up from kitchen table, where he had successfully built a mini cannon using stuff lying around, and ran to the window, peering out of the brand new hole in the pane.  
Behind him he heard the door to 221B open and close and a stomping coming up the stairs. A glance at the snow outside proved that it was John. Only he would have been stupid enough to go out in this weather and make footprints in the snow.  
John entered the room and slammed the door. By the window, Sherlock froze and turned, trying to use his body to hide the hole behind him.  
John pulled a small metal dart from his pocket, a relic from a case that had been completed last week, and tossed it in his hand.  
Ah, Sherlock had wondered why he hadn't seen that in the street.  
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," John told him, dangerously. "Tell me what you did."  
"I don't know what you're talking about" Sherlock lied easily.  
"Okay," John answered slowly. "We'll do it the hard way then." He paused, "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" he shouted, causing Sherlock to take a step back, "YOU COULD HAVE HIT SOMEONE!"  
"I assure you, John, after breaking the window, most of its momentum had been lost so it wouldn't have been able to penetrate the skin even if-" He stopped his rushed explanation, clapping his hands over his mouth.  
"There we go, well done, Sherlock." he sighed, pushing past to assess the damage. Sherlock hung his head in shame.  
John scowled, "This will never be fixed in this weather. Damn, it'll be cold." He turned towards Sherlock, pulling him into a hug.  
"I hate you so much, you know."  
"Are you angry with me?" Sherlock mumbled into John's hair.  
"More than you can possibly imagine."

The next day it was cold. In fact, it was freezing. Sherlock even decided it was bone-numbingly freezing, like the middle of the Antarctic, and refused to believe anything different.  
The flat's heating failed to shift any of the chill coming in through the broken window and John was going around wearing about 5 knitted jumpers.  
He got up to make a cup of tea and glanced at Sherlock, who was hunched over on the sofa, wrapped up tightly in his thick coat and scarf.  
"Do you want tea?" he called, teeth just starting to chatter.  
"Y-y-yes p-pl-please" Sherlock replied. John sighed; he had told him at least a hundred times to move off the sofa that was in the draft from the hole. He had contacted the council and they were going to fix it the next day. Brilliant.  
He returned to the lounge with two mugs of steaming tea. He approached Sherlock, handed him a mug and started to walk away, only to be grabbed by a gloved hand and pulled back onto the sofa.  
He wrapped his fingers around the mug and looked at Sherlock, questioningly. Sherlock looked sad and cold and then lay down on John's lap.  
John froze, "Sherlock?" he questioned.  
"I'm cold, you're hot." Sherlock stated, lazily. "In those stupid survival programs, they say that in a cold environment you should huddle together for warmth."  
"But there isn't a risk of hypothermia." John told him.  
Sherlock failed to reply, so John wrapped an arm around him and allowed himself to relax.

5 hours later, after no replies to his text messages, Lestrade ploughed through the snow to Baker Street. He ran up the stairs, stopped and stared at the sight in front of him. John and Sherlock were fast asleep on the sofa, arms wrapped around each other. Lestrade smiled, captured a quick photo on his phone and walked out again. Oh, how the Yard would react when they found out about this!

**AN: Feel free to prompt any stories you want :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: A Nice one for Christmas :) I'm feeling all Christmassy at the moment :)**

**Christmas Tree**

Sherlock marched into the flat, walking through the lounge, and straight into the kitchen.  
He pulled open the freezer, rummaged around in his pockets, and dropped a fresh tub of severed fingers into the freezing space.  
Then, he stopped and frowned, something slowly clicking in his head. He turned and walked straight back into the lounge, where he stopped and stared at the thing in the corner.  
He was almost sure there was a reason that it was there, but at the moment he couldn't think of it, and it just looked like a brilliant thing for criminals to hide behind.  
"John!" he shouted to the flat, wondering if John was in.  
"What?"  
Sherlock took an involuntary step backwards, his eyes widening, as John popped up from behind the thing.  
"John," he explained, slowly, wondering if John was even aware of the thing he had been kneeling behind, it wouldn't be the first time he hadn't seen things. "There's a tree in our house."  
To be honest, Sherlock wasn't sure it counted as a tree. It was pointy, about the height of his chest and was covered with glittery bits and bobs.  
"Yes, I know." John replied, "What of it?"  
"Why is there a tree, probably the most shameful attempt of a tree in all eternity, in our house?"  
John sighed and gave him 'the look', "It's a Christmas tree, Sherlock, it's to celebrate Christmas, and you can put presents under it."  
"Why do trees show Christmas?"  
"Don't know, something to do with Germany, I think." he answered, "Now, what to do you think?"  
"I think it looks ill." Sherlock stated, "It's got shiny things growing on it. That's probably a rare German disease."  
"Sherlock," John told him, quietly, "They're baubles and tinsel."  
"Oh good, I'm glad you know what they are." he shot him a smile, "Were you treating it? Was that why you were down there?"  
Sarcastically, John muttered, "Yes, that's exactly was I was doing." Raising his voice he said, "No, they're decorations."  
"Oh." Sherlock exclaimed, surprised. "I'm not sure the tree likes them, but they're quite pretty."  
John stepped away from the tree and wrapped his arms round Sherlock's waist.  
"Have you never seen a Christmas tree before?" he mumbled into his chest, as Sherlock's arms came around his shoulders.  
"Yes, I have. They were always bigger though. And they were more organised." He paused, and rubbed his nose into John's hair. "To be honest," he revealed, quietly, "I prefer this one. It's more you. And me." He added, "Us."  
"Come on then," John told him, pulling away, "You can help finish it. I bought tags, I thought we could write memories of the year on them and put them on the tree..." He shuffled his feet, awkwardly, "Actually it was a stupid idea, forget it."  
"I think it's a brilliant idea, let's go."

* * *

They spent hours writing down memories from the year, often laughing about their experiences. Each one they did, they hung on the tree, until it was full.  
Sherlock's favourite tag had to be "Sherlock made me a cup of coffee, that wasn't drugged, for the first time." That had been an extremely proud moment for him.  
John's favourite was "Stayed in with John this evening and watched movies. Surprising found it very relaxing. Also, there was lots of cuddling." It had been a brilliantly normal evening and he had managed to make Sherlock watch Lord of the Rings.  
"Now, we need presents," he said, standing up and stretching. "But we don't have any yet. I'm going to bed, you coming?"  
"A bit later, when I've done an experiment."  
"Okay, no blowing up the kitchen though." Sherlock smirked as John headed to bed.

* * *

It was nearly midnight, with John sleeping soundly, when Sherlock crept into the lounge. Under his arm was a large wrapped box, the first present that he had actually taken time to decide on. He slid it under the tree and retreated back to his Doctor in their room. The present faced upwards, the tag showing "To John, Merry Christmas, Love from Sherlock xxx"

**AN: Hope you enjoyed it :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Another random one-shot that happened to pop into my head when I had my braces taken off! :D Enjoy! Feel free to leave any prompts :)**

**Braces**

"Hey, Dad!" Hamish called as he walked into 221b. Sherlock was, as usual, laid out on the sofa in his blue silk robe, his pale hands steepled under his chin.  
Hamish gave him a smile, damn, even that hurt, and went into the kitchen to get something to eat. He successfully ignored the suspicious looking tubs and what looked like a finger lying on the bottom shelf, finding a tub of ice cream.  
He turned as he heard movement from the doorway, to see Sherlock standing there with an unreadable expression on his face  
"Hi Father, are you getting anywhere with the case?" he asked, not liking the intensity of his father's gaze.  
"Smile." Sherlock commanded.  
Confused, Hamish obeyed, flashing his teeth.  
Sherlock eyes widened, he marched over and grabbed his cheeks, angling his bead upwards. "Hamish!" He shouted, "Have you been kidnapped? What happened? What have they done to your teeth?" He looked like whoever was responsible for this terrible act may not survive the day.  
"Get off, Father," he muttered, pulling out of his grip. "I got braces earlier, that's all."  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, the cogs in his brain working out if Hamish was telling the truth. Hamish just looked at him, innocently.  
After a minute, Sherlock straightened up. "Oh," he commented, turning back towards the living room. "What are braces?" he asked, looking back at him.  
"Painful bits of metal and wire that straighten your teeth."  
It seemed only one word of that had filtered into Sherlock's brain, "Painful?"  
"Yeah, it hurts a bit. But it won't after a day or so."  
Sherlock marched into the other room, "Come here! I'll sort of the pain." Hamish smiled, he was glad Sherlock cared enough about him to give him painkillers.  
When he walked into the lounge, he realised he had been mistaken. Sherlock came and stood next to him, and pressed his gun into his cheek.  
"Is this where it hurt?" He questioned, "I'll destroy the source of the pain."  
"You're going to shoot me in the mouth?" Hamish asked, raising his eyebrows as he looked at his father.  
"Yes."  
"And you can't see any problems with that idea?"  
"Honestly, I swear I won't hit your brain. I'm a crack shot, not as good as your father though."  
"SHERLOCK, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? GET THAT GUN AWAY FROM HAMISH!"  
They both turned to see John in the doorway, looking dangerously like he was going to explode.  
"He's got metal in his mouth, John and it's hurting him. I am about to solve that problem."  
"Can't you act like a normal parent and give him painkillers?"  
"They're drugs." Sherlock stated, sounding far too pleased with him.  
"I know."  
"Drugs are bad."  
"If it's any consolation," Hamish cut in," I thought it was a good idea. It just needed extra work on the not killing me part."  
"Don't encourage him, Hamish." John scolded, but the anger had disappeared from his body and amusement was filling his eyes.  
"Well," Sherlock drawled. "Since I thought I was being a good parent and trying to sort out my child's problems, but no one seems impressed, I'm going to examine some eyes." He stalked to the kitchen, his robe handing off one shoulder, to sulk.  
John raised his eyebrows then sighed. He looked at Hamish and smiled, "Right, painkillers."  
"Thanks, Dad."  
John walked into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him, as Hamish relaxed into an armchair, ready to watch TV.  
A few minutes later he heard, "Sherlock, NOT THE BLOODY MICROWAVE!" and an indignant cry of "But, John." from Sherlock, followed by a loud bang.  
Hamish leaned his head back; he supposed he could go a bit longer without those painkillers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sleep**

I'm sat on the sofa, the soft cushions supporting my back as I slouch slightly. You're in the kitchen. I can hear you clattering around. You're so close and yet so far away from me. I want to wrap my arms around your shoulders, hear your amused chuckle as I do, but you're too far away.

I'm too tired. I didn't sleep last night, or the night before that, for that matter. I can't really remember when my head last touched the pillow. I think, I vaguely remember, but you weren't there. You slept last night. Your brain didn't need to stay awake, slotting the pieces together.

You come back into the room and say something. It doesn't register in my mind, only the hum of noise. You hand me a mug, it's warm against my pale skin. As you pass it to me, our hands brush. I feel the shock of electricity down my spine, the butterflies in my empty stomach.

Why do you provoke such a reaction from me? I don't understand it. And neither do you.

There's a buzzing in my head. Why won't it stop? Go silent for just a second - that would be a relief.

The moonlight streaming through the windows outlines everything in a pale light. They blend into each other, a blur in front of my eyes. A dust mote floats into my hazy vision of the room. I think I should know something about it, but my mind is too exhausted to reach out and try and find it.

You sit down next to me, a dip in the sofa cushions. I'm so close; I can feel the heat coming off you. Can I have that heat, sweetheart? It's so cold in here. The TV's been turned on. When did that happen? The buzz is distracting, it makes my head hurt.

You're so warm. I lean into the heat, perhaps too far, for suddenly it's there, right against my cheek. You say something, I don't listen.

I breathe in your scent, soap and shampoo and warmth and _home_. You're home. I might have said something, I'm not sure. Nothing makes sense now, everything unclear, and everything abstract.

The case is over; I don't need to stay awake anymore.

_Sleep _

It beckons to my body, the transport. Sleep should be done in bed, shouldn't it? Here seems like such a good place, though. You're here. And there's no energy left to get to my bed.

I bury my nose into your smooth skin, wanting to wrap my arms around you, but they're too heavy, unresponsive. I'm slipping away now.

The mug is pulled from my limp hands, they don't protest for you're the warmth now. A weight comes around my body, pulling me closer to your firm body. A whispered word in my ear, breath brushing the delicate skin, sending shivers through me.

This is nice. This is good. Can we do this every night, do you think? I try to keep my eyes open, hold onto the precipice of consciousness with my fingertips. But, the warmth makes me fall.

I'm falling into blackness.

I'm falling into sleep.

I'm falling into dreams of you.

I'm falling _for _you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Fireworks**

The child put his hands over his ears. "Loud!" he cried.  
Sherlock looked down at him, "Of course they're loud! It's combusting metal!"  
The child stared up at him with large, round eyes.  
"Look, when different metals burn they produce different colours."  
"Pretty colours!" the child replied.  
"They're not that pretty. They're incredibly dangerous. I mean, if you're too close to them, the noise can burst your eardrums, so you'll be deaf for your whole life. Or you can get burnt. I suppose if one came towards you it could burn its way through your body creating a nice hole of burnt flesh... I'll have to try that out." He commented, as an afterthought.  
The child, who hadn't understood all of the words in the rant, had certainly got the subject of the speech, and started to cry.  
"What?" Sherlock muttered, "No, don't do that. They are very nice and they're completely safe," he tried to reassure him. "Please don't cry. Can't bear crying."  
"What's happening?" John appeared behind them.  
"Oh thank God, John. It's crying."  
"I can see that. What did you say to him? Whose child is he, anyway?"  
"I was... Talking about fireworks." John raised an eyebrow, "And it belongs to someone over there." Sherlock gestured widely to the people in front of them.  
"Well, good going, Sherlock!" John told him, sarcastically. He bent down in front of the child, "Hello," he cooed kindly, "I'm John. Where are your parents?"  
The child pointed to two adults a few feet away, smiled at John and then ran off to join his family.  
"Well done!" Sherlock exclaimed, "You made it go away!"  
"Him, Sherlock, not it." He looked around, "I'll be back in a minute."  
"John!" Sherlock called after him, confused. He shook his head and turned back to the exploding magnesium in the sky.

"Here I got you a drink." John appeared at his elbow, holding out a polystyrene cup of a dark liquid. He looked hilarious in his woolly hat and mittens.  
"What is it?" Sherlock asked curiously, peering at the liquid in the dull light.  
"Hot chocolate." John answered, turning to look at the fireworks as he took a sip.  
Sherlock frowned at the drink and brought it to his mouth. It had just touched his lips when panic spread through him and he threw the drink to the ground. He spun round and whacked John's cup out of his grasp, leaving John gaping at the floor.  
He sniffed indignantly and straightened, now that the threat had passed.  
Next to him, John closed his mouth, glared at the backs of the people in front of them, clenched his fists and turned to Sherlock with raised eyebrows.  
"What was that for?" he almost growled.  
Sherlock turned to him with wide, innocent eyes. "It was poisoned, John. There were squishy bits floating around in it."  
John's anger dissipated and turned to confusion. "Are you talking about the marshmallows?"  
"Marshmallows?" Sherlock's brows furrowed as he searched around his mind palace for a definition of this thing.  
"You know! Squishy, pink, sweet! Don't tell me you've never heard of marshmallows?"  
"As children, Mycroft and I did not concern ourselves with sweets."  
"You've never had marshmallows?" John was now looking at him in disbelief.  
Sherlock shook his head and then looked at John's face.  
"Did I do something wrong?" his voice quiet with worry.  
"What? No... You're just..." Sherlock tilted his head, intrigued. "Unbearable and amazing." John finished, pulling Sherlock into a hug under the fireworks.  
"Oh, right." Sherlock replied, relaxing into the hug.  
"But promise me something, Sherlock." John growled in his ear.  
"What?"  
"Never spill my hot chocolate again!"  
And with that, they collapsed into hysterical giggles.


End file.
